


Kiss me on my open mouth

by DreamingOfABetterYou



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Car Sex, F/M, Female!Arthur, Mild Breathplay, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25770139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingOfABetterYou/pseuds/DreamingOfABetterYou
Summary: Arthur wore a pencil skirt to the event. Eames never stood a chance.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	Kiss me on my open mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darlings!
> 
> This came into my head when I listened to Lana del Rey's "Off to the races" (hence the title) and I basically wrote it down in a feverish stream of consciousness.  
> I hope you enjoy it, let me know how you found the general vibe in the comments if you fancy! (I was going for 'quite sexy but also a bit tragic' :D)
> 
> Love, Liz xx

Arthur wore a pencil skirt to the event. Eames never stood a chance.

He groaned when he saw her stepping out of the hotel room right next to his; nevermind the fact that he hadn’t slept in his own bed the last week, she had insisted on separate rooms.

“Darling, you look delectable as always. Are you aware that Saito’s speeches take bloody _ages_?”

She smirked sharply as she clicked her handbag shut. “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Eames. It will be perfectly fine.”

It is not fucking perfectly fine. The ride there was already a nightmare; Eames had insisted on taking his rental car and not a cab like they usually did. If he hoped that maybe Arthur would let him feel her up, that was his private business.

She didn’t.

(At least not on the way there.)

Of course, Saito talked for what seemed like hours, Arthur towering over him in her black Louboutins (like she had any need to be even taller at five foot nine barefoot) a constant presence in the corner of his eye. When they _finally_ get to leave after some abhorrent mingling and networking, Eames could have scaled the walls in desperation.

Five minutes after their last goodbyes to the people they know and the people they might want to know in the future, they meet in front of the exit leading down to the parking garage.

“Mr. Eames, you’re late” Arthur snaps imperiously even as her dimples threaten to show when she grabs onto his shoulder for support to gingerly step out of her heels. “These fuckers kill me every time.”

Eames bends readily, picking the shoes up for her and holding them in one hand as he opens the door for her with the other. “As a man of very simple tastes, darling, I have to tell you they’re worth it.”

Arthur snorts even as she hurries down the stairs on bare feet, red nail polish the only pop of colour on the depressingly grey cement steps.

She’s desperate too, then, he thinks. Good; it wouldn’t do to be the only one.

They don’t even make it halfway to the hotel when Eames skims his palm just a bit up Arthur’s leg. It has been resting on her knee since he manoeuvred them out of the garage and into the night, Arthur’s reaction a mere raised eyebrow and a private smirk. Eames only realised Arthur’s legs were bare when she took her heels off; before, he thought of tights, privately and very much selfishly hoping she’d be wearing nude thigh-highs. (Arthur in thigh-highs is something Eames hopes for on a very much regular basis.) Knowing her legs were bare cut off some rational part of his brain, leaving mostly hunger behind.

He can’t go far before he meets the fabric of her skirt; at the next red light he steals his way under her skirt with a wink, only disturbed by the stiff fabric not allowing him to go higher than mid-thigh. Even while Arthur purses her lips in apparent disapproval, she flushes down to her neck, the lovely pinkish hue reaching into the collar of her dark blouse.

It’s another two minutes before Eames dares to curl his hand inwards, rough fingertips ghosting over the tender skin of Arthur’s inner thigh. Her legs snap together so suddenly that he nearly floors the gas, startled.

“No?” he asks, trying to pull his hand from between her thighs; as much as he enjoys ribbing Arthur and winding her up, consent is something he has never and will never play with. Arthur’s hand stills his movement and Eames flicks his eyes over to her briefly, regrettably having to return his gaze to the street to make sure they don’t die.

“Turn left into that alley” Arthur commands quietly, nodding to a corner opening about a hundred feet ahead. Frowning, he follows her direction, hand still caught in her grip even through the fabric of her skirt.

When he hits the brakes, he can barely turn around to ask what’s wrong before Arthur descends on him. Her mouth is hot and soft and bruising all at the same time; it’s such a 180 degree turn that Eames needs two or three seconds before he understands what’s going on. He twists in his seat, unbuckling his seatbelt as he does – terribly unsexy, seatbelts, but quite useful – and reaching for Arthur with his free hand, cupping the side of her face to tilt it into a deeper kiss.

“I might have wrecked the car” he mutters against her mouth, flexing his fingers gently against her skin where it’s still trapped against her inner thigh.

“Sorry” he returns, sounding hardly sorry at all, “I’ve been…keyed up.” Her eyes flicker down to his torso betrayingly; Eames grins.

“What, over little old me?” he taunts even as he preens inwardly. He knows he wears a suit well – very well, even – but it’s nice to be appreciated by the person he craves approval most from.

Arthur pushes air through her nose in mock-annoyance, her lips ticking up into a devious smile.

“Finish what you started, then.”

For a second, Eames can’t believe what’s happening, and wishes desperately for his totem; but he very much remembers how he got here.

“Are you serious?” he asks, still, just to be sure.

Arthur shrugs casually, the flush on her neck betraying her indifference. “It’s late. No one’s going to see us.”

Eames notices, with a start, that’s he’s growing a bit more than just half-hard at that idea. He hums his approval into the next kiss they share, withdrawing his right hand under muffled protests from Arthur only to directly replace it with his left.

“Much better angle, darling” he mumbles against her mouth which falls open as soon as he reaches the apex of her thighs. It’s not an ideal position, and his shoulder will thank him for that tomorrow, but for now, there is nothing Eames wants more than to push Arthur’s already-damp underwear aside and fill her with two of his thick fingers.

So that’s exactly what he does.

“Eames” Arthur gasps, reaching for him with one hand, guiding his chin to meet her in another kiss; this one much wetter and less graceful than the one before. When they part, Eames groans in pleasure. She’s tight and soaking wet around his fingers, clenching around him every time he pulls out a little. He doesn’t need to imagine how she would feel around his cock; that he knows intimately. (He is aware that he is a lucky bastard, thank you very much.) Still, the desire is very much there.

“Eames” Arthur calls out again. “Eames, you need to fuck me.”

Eames nearly blacks out when Arthur unbuckles her seat belt, leaning over to bite at the edge of his jaw. She _knows_ that’s his weak spot.

“Darling” he starts and immediately loses his train of thought as Arthur kisses his neck before falling back heavily against her seat, her short hair beginning to escape its gel bounds. She looks fucking transcendent, and her eyes are basically all pupil when they open again to fix upon him.

“Now, Eames” Arthur bites out as she arches into his touch.

Helplessly, Eames curls closer against her side, sliding his fingers even further into her; her breath is hot and damp on his neck when she curves towards him. Arthur uncontrolled, unchecked, unencumbered is a glorious sight to behold, and a rare one at that.

“How am I supposed to fuck you in that bloody pencil skirt?” he pants, and feels his cock twitch at the mental image that naturally comes with the words.

“I thought you were the one with imagination” she retorts instantly, and – he should have probably expected that, to be perfectly honest.

He buys himself some time by distracting her with a kiss, shamelessly sliding his tongue into her sharp-talking, pink-lipped mouth. His mind runs a mile a minute, not sure whether the way she clenches around his still-moving fingers is a brilliant incentive or a torturous distraction.

“Do you have a knife?” he asks suddenly, and Arthur huffs in poorly-concealed amusement.

“If you think I’ll let you slice into that 600-dollar skirt you have an even worse sense of reality than I thought.”

“Worth a try” he grins against her collarbone, nibbling a mark there before she can reprimand him for it. Predictably, when she catches up to him after a moment, she slides a slender hand smoothly around his throat; the mere suggestion of a squeeze in the near future is enough to make him moan. They don’t do this very often: Arthur has to be in a particular kind of mood for it, and Eames has to be sure enough that the memories of being choked more violently – both in dreams and, regrettably, in reality too – are far enough under that he won’t spiral into a panic attack. (It happened once, years ago, when they were still too proud to believe that proper communication was something they needed; he still dreams of Arthur’s suddenly-white face sometimes, her eyes full of shock and fear as he heaved air into his lungs hysterically.)

She cocks an elegantly shaped eyebrow at him, eyes dark but both fond and careful, searching for any sign of hesitation on his face. Slightly regretful of losing contact, he eases his hand off her chest where he had cupped her breast through too many layers of silk and lace, and covers her much smaller hand with his own, dwarfing her. Their eyes locked, he slowly leads her into a choke, not enough to scare or hurt or leave marks, but enough for him to feel. She smiles, slow like molasses and slightly feral, as she feels his racing pulse under her fingertips, and he has to bite back a love confession. While the idea that Arthur would be welcoming such feelings has grown stronger over the last years – he is not proud to say that he has been pining after her for half a decade at this point – he is still sure that the first time of hearing it shouldn’t be when he has two fingers shoved into her. He’s a romantic that way.

His right hand moves down between his own legs awkwardly, blindly groping around for the lever which will send his seat back. He finds it with a low growl of triumph which drowns in Arthur’s sweet mouth, and lurches back with a start. Her eyes, flying open at the noise, narrow in approval as he begins to pull her over to his side, navigating the length of her legs with the centre console. Regrettably, he has to withdraw his fingers from her cunt, wasting no time to lick them clean. Arthur’s pupils impossibly dilate even more at that, and Eames smirks even as he helps her push the skirt up her lovely thighs. When she lands in his lap at last, still hovering slightly but already deliciously spread over the breadth of his quads, he can’t help but buck up into that promising cradle.

“I knew you’d figure it out” she praises him, half-serious, as she pets his hair, nails skirting his scalp in a delicious massage. “Such a clever boy.”

She’s clearly taking the piss, but Eames can’t help but preen, just a little bit. He reaches for the cleverly-concealed side zip to offer Arthur some more space and fiddles with it until it unzips. Arthur rewards him with another kiss and a filthy grind against his cock when she can finally sit down on top of him; at this point, he’s gone from painfully hard to near-numb with pleasure and sensation. His belt buckle clangs loudly with only their joint heavy breaths for company, but it’s soon joined by Eames’ moan – nearly a keen – when Arthur slides her fingers into his opened pair of wool trousers, into his sunshine-yellow boxers, the ones she pretends to hate, and finally, _finally_ , takes him in hand.

“If you keep this up for long, this will be over too soon, darling” he warns her, squirming away from her touch even as his body screams at him that he will die if he doesn’t come soon. She pulls his cock out gently and leaves him be with a delicious flick over his foreskin – he should have never taught her that, he thinks as he twitches violently. Taking his hands, she leads them back up her thighs, letting him feel smooth, soft skin and the tickle of small hairs where she hasn’t bothered to shave; she rarely does unless she has to, for stuffy work meetings where men still believe that a woman’s leg hair is automatically tied to her overall competence and professionalism. Eames shakes his head as he thinks about the last fool who actually tried telling Arthur a version of that to her face; she hums at the motion. “What is it?”

“Just thinking” he’s quick to assure her, smoothing his thumbs over her hipbones, partly covered by laser-cut underwear. He loves Arthur the most in lace and cleverly placed straps – if, of course, a naked Arthur is not an option – but she refuses to wear tight-fitting clothing with that in order to prevent lines. Fair enough, Eames thinks even as he palms her firm arse; this way the lace is all for him to enjoy.

“I’m not doing my job well enough, then, if you can still think” she grumbles faux-annoyed; he has to kiss her for it, just a moment, just to taste the words from her tongue.

“How strongly do you feel about that underwear, darling?” he asks innocently even as he’s already curling his fingers around the fabric. Arthur chuckles. “You really think I’d wear _that_ skirt with underwear I’m particularly fond of when I know you’d be there, desperate to rip it off?”

“Wouldn’t say desperate” he insists mulishly, ripping first the left and then the right side with a near-lightspeed pace.

“You’re a brute” she mutters against his lips, but he can hear the shakiness in her voice, can feel her squirming down against him even more. As much as they’re usually near-equals in sparring, Arthur has – begrudgingly – always had a thing for Eames’ strength, the bulge of his muscles, the way he can box her in with thick arms, the way his strong legs hold her up while he fucks her against the door. The way he subdues his strength, sometimes, to let her take the lead. Now, though, as Eames lifts her just enough to snatch away the ruined piece of fabric, she seems happy to play ragdoll. Rising on her knees, she takes his cock in hand again, humming contently at Eames’ sharp hiss.

“Alright?” she asks breathily as she leads him to her opening.

“I will be in a second” he replies, earning an eyeroll and a smirk even as she lowers herself down on his cock with a soft moan.

After that, all rational thought is a mere memory, faded and blurred.

“You’re fucking perfect” he snarls against her mouth as he grips her hips with both hands, angling her in a way that makes her groan, makes her clench down around his cock and throw out a hand against the car window as he pumps his hips. If he wasn’t sure it’d earn him a place in the doghouse for days, he’d make a quip about fogging up the windows like Jack and Rose.

“You’re so perfect, you have no idea” he rambles on, letting Arthur soothe his overheated skin with her nimble fingers, petting over his neck and dipping into the collar of his shirt. Irrationally, he’s still fully-dressed and fully-buttoned up, while Arthur writhes in his lap with her cunt and arse exposed and her wrap blouse carelessly flung open to reveal her amethyst lace bra. He’s stroking the top of her breast where it rises up every time she breathes in, flicking a playful thumb over her nipple every so often. When he catches sight of her hand sneaking down to where they’re joined, he’s quick to abandon post and grip around her wrist.

“Not trusting me to take care of you?” he teases, gently running his thumb down her stomach until it lies in wait just over her cunt. Arthur whines in frustration, her hips hitching up to prompt him into touching her.

“Then fucking _take care of me_ ” she bites out; her eyes flash with obvious concern as she replays her words in her head, possibly. Eames’ chest aches for her, and he brings his hips to a near-still, slowing his pistoning thrusts into a circling grind. He cups her face and leads their mouths together even as she huffs against his lips, kissing her gently, carefully, thoroughly. When his thumb finally circles her clit, firmly rubbing over it every few passes – Arthur is nothing if not direct, in every way – she brokenly keens into his mouth.

“I will take such good care of you, darling. Arthur, I swear” he mutters, eyes clenched shut both to not embarrass her and to keep track of his fucking cock; he might bloody well come on accident if he’s not careful, and then what?

Arthur gasps quietly, like she’s aware he’s definitely not talking about making her come anymore, and brings their foreheads together on his next push up into her.

“Eames” she whispers, cupping his face in her palms, breathing his name on every thrust, like it’s a mantra she never wants to forget. Her inflection changes from near-dreamlike to harsh and demanding to sweet moans; Eames wants to fill her sounds up in a bottle and get drunk off them.

“Darling” he replies quietly, and wonders if maybe she has known all along; maybe she has been waiting for him to catch up.

Whatever talk they need to have, however, can most certainly wait, he thinks, speeding up again, burying himself to the hilt on every thrust. Her moans are near-continuous now; contrary to popular belief, Arthur is a _very_ vocal lover, if you know what you’re doing, at least. Thankfully, Eames thinks as he rubs her clit while she keens and bites into his shoulder, clutching at his biceps now, he’s grown into somewhat of an expert. The way she clenches tightly around his cock takes his breath away, and realistically, regretfully, he knows that he can’t fuck Arthur in his car forever, as much as he would like to. (He would like that a lot.)

“Arthur” he growls warningly, and chuckles when she curses.

“I swear to God, Eames, if you come before I get to, I will kill you and leave you right here in this alley.” Her voice is breathy enough that Eames knows she’s close; he pulls her into a kiss, wrapping a strong arm around her back and gripping the back of her neck possessively. They both know Arthur could get out of his hold in a heartbeat and leave him behind with several broken bones; even so, she shudders, collapsing slightly into herself. Her right hand flies up to clutch at his collar, with her thumb firmly smoothing over the length of his neck. Eames moans loudly, unashamed at how it echoes off the walls of the car.

“You’re being very cruel” he complains half-heartedly; it’s hard to pretend he’s upset when every pleasure synapse is firing at the same time. Arthur laughs wildly, catching at the top of a breath to throw her head back with a moan when he rocks into her especially hard. Her lovely throat exposed, Eames has to lean in and lick it just a bit, swallowing eagerly against the way this adds pressure to Arthur’s grip on his neck. He’s about an inch below her ear, tongue flat and wide against her skin, when she seizes up and orders: “Oh fuck, right there.”

 _I know_ , he wants to say, _I’ve been cataloguing you for years. I know what you like. I know you._

Instead, he makes it his mission to make her come as quick and as hard as possible. He knows he’s being unfair about it, dragging out the motions of his hips until she claws at him, cursing his name, even if they both know that ultimately, it will make her orgasm that much more intense. His thumb is sore from working her clit, and he feels sweat running down his spine under his shirt, but nothing matters as much as the way Arthur keeps on gasping his name, now near-praising, as she holds on tightly to his shoulders.

“Come on, darling” he spurs her on, “the quicker we both come, the quicker I can lick myself back out of you. We wouldn’t want – _ah –_ to spoil the leather” he quips against her ear, flicking her lobe with his tongue before he sets his mouth over that one spot on her neck and sucks.

Arthur _screams_ , shaking apart under the combined force of his cock deep inside her, his thumb on her clit and his mouth sucking blood to the surface of her skin with only the suggestion of teeth. He fucks her through it relentlessly, drinking in her cries like he’s been parched for weeks.

“Eames” her voice is frantic and hoarse and the most delicious sound Eames has ever heard, possibly, “Eames, come on.” He thrusts up into her, all semblance of rhythm and restraint gone, his teeth baring in a desperate snarl as he feels him clench around her when he swipes her clit again. Then, it’s all over: he hunches forward into her ready embrace, leaning his forehead against her collarbone as he groans, shaking with the force of his orgasm. Arthur hums a close-mouthed sigh contentedly; Eames would like to know how it feels to have him coming inside of her, he thinks, but he has never dared to ask.

“Darling” he breathes tenderly, after a long minute of near-silence, just broken by heavy breaths and the occasional quiet moan as Eames shifts inside Arthur, not quite softened enough that he has to pull out just yet. She shakes her head lightly, shushing him as she leans in to kiss him again.

Her lips are soft, blood-warm especially now that they’ve been bruised by his mouth, and forgiving, opening easily to welcome his tongue. Lazily, they circle each other before Arthur sucks on his tongue, snorting when it makes Eames’ cock twitch tiredly inside of her. She hums into his mouth as he skims big, gentle hands over her back; he can feel her sweat under his fingertips, and wants to touch her even more for it. Her kiss soothes him in a way it possibly shouldn’t; her teeth are sharp against his lower lip. This is Arthur at her most dangerous, he thinks distantly while she flexes her fingers against his chest, making him feel the pointed ache of her fingernails only slightly; she could slip a knife right between his ribs and he wouldn’t notice.

He groans when she clenches around his cock one more time, bucking up into her on instinct with no real aim to follow through; she has destroyed him for at least the next hour, he’s guessing.

“You’ll kill me one day” he mutters as he lets his head drop back again the seat, gazing up at her through half-lowered lids.

For one split-second, her expression is immeasurably sad before she gently cups his face, fluttering her thumb over his cheekbone like an apology.

“I know.”


End file.
